him pressed tight against me, as though he, too, wanted nothing to come between us. No happiness can compare to the happiness of getting what you have begged and prayed for. I was exactly where I’d longed to be, but now was aware of every second ticking by and how my family would be wondering after me.
Reluctantly, I pried his arms from my waist. “I can’t stay. I must go back… though sometimes I wish there was somewhere else for me… a place I could go rather than home.”
I had meant to say only that I wished I didn’t have to leave the sweet harbor of his company but this truth slipped out, a truth I’d kept smothered inside me. It felt shameful, a secret fear to which I should not admit, but the words had escaped and there was no taking them back. Jonathan looked at me quizzically. “Why is that, Lanny?”
“Well, sometimes I feel-I have no place within my family.” I felt a fool having to explain it to Jonathan, perhaps the one person in the village who had never gone unloved or had ever felt undeserving of happiness. “Nevin’s the only son, so he’s invaluable to my parents. And he’ll inherit the farm one day. Then there are my sisters… well, they’re so pretty, everyone in town admires them for their prettiness. Their prospects are good. But me…” I couldn’t say, even to Jonathan, the heart of my secret fear-that my happiness mattered to no one, that
He pulled me down next to him in the hay and drew me into his arms, holding me fast as I tried to pull away, not from him but from my shame. “I can’t bear to hear you say these things, Lanny… well, you’re the one I choose to be with, aren’t you? The only one I seem to feel comfortable with, the only person I reveal myself to. I would spend all my time in your company, if I could. Father, Mother, my sisters, Benjamin… I’d give them up, all of them, for it to be just you, just the two of us, together forever.”
I ate up his pretty tribute, of course; it cut through my shame and went straight to my head like a draft of strong whiskey. Don’t mistake what I am saying: at the time, he believed he loved me and I was sure of his sincerity. But now, with hard-earned wisdom, I understand how foolish we were to say such dangerous words to each other! We were arrogant and naive, thinking we knew what we felt then was love. Love can be a cheap emotion, lightly given, though it didn’t seem so to me at the time. Looking back, I know we were only filling in the holes in our souls, the way the tide rushes sand to fill in the crevices of a rocky shore. We-or maybe it was just I- bandaged our needs with what we declared was love. But, eventually, the tide draws out what it has swept in.
It was impossible for Jonathan to give me what he’d claimed to wish for; he couldn’t give up his family or his responsibilities. He didn’t have to tell me that his parents would never let him settle for me as a wife. But that late afternoon, in that cold barn, I possessed Jonathan’s love, and having it, I was all the more ferocious to hold on to it. He’d declared his love for me, I was assured of mine for him, proof that we were meant to be together and that, of all the souls in God’s universe, we were bound to each other. Bound in love.
We met that way only twice more over the next two months, a sorry record for lovers. On each occasion, we spoke very little (except for him to confess how he’d missed me), rushing to lovemaking, our haste owing to the fear that we would be discovered as well as due to the cold. We stripped each other as bare as we dared go, and used mouths and hands to knead, caress, and kiss. Each time, we coupled as though it would be the last time for either of us-perhaps we intuited an unhappy future, hovering at our elbow, counting down the seconds until it would wrap us in a dread embrace. Both times, we parted in haste, too, the scent of him slithering up from under my clothes, wetness between my legs and a burn on my cheeks that I hoped would be mistaken by my family for a nip from the cold.
Each time we parted, however, doubt began to nibble at the back of my mind. I had Jonathan’s love-for now- but what did that mean? I knew Jonathan’s past better than anyone. Hadn’t he loved Sophia, too, and yet I had made him forget about her-or so it seemed. I could pretend that he would be true and faithful to me, choose to be willfully blind, as many women do, and hope that in time this would come to pass. My blindness was aided by a stubborn conviction that a bond of love was ordained by God, and no matter how inconvenient, how unlikely or painful, it could not be changed by man. I had to have faith that my love would triumph over any imperfection in Jonathan’s love for me; love, after all, is faith, and all faith is meant to be tested.
Now I know only a fool looks for assurances in love. Love demands so much of us that in return we try to get a guarantee that it will last. We demand permanence, but who can make such promises? I should have been happy with the love-companionable, abiding-that Jonathan had had for me since childhood. That love was eternal. Instead, I tried to make his feelings for me into what they were not and, in trying, I ruined the beautiful eternal thing that I had.
Sometimes the worst tidings come as an absence. A friend who does not visit at the usual time, and who quickly thereafter withdraws from the friendship. An awaited letter that does not arrive, followed at some distance by news of an untimely death. And, in my case that winter, the cessation of my monthly flowers. First, one month. Then a second.
I prayed there might be another cause. I cursed Sophia’s spirit, sure that she was paying me back. Once bidden, however, Sophia’s spirit was not so easy to contain.
Sophia began visiting me in my dreams. In some, her face would merely appear in a crowd, jarring and accusatory, then disappear. In one recurring dream, I would be with Jonathan only to have him leave me abruptly, turning from me as though by silent command, ignoring my pleas that he stay. He’d then reappear with Sophia, the two walking hand in hand in the distance, Jonathan without even a thought for me. I’d always wake from these dreams feeling hurt and abandoned.
The worst dream would throw me out of sleep like a bucking horse and I’d have to stifle my cries or risk waking my sisters. The other dreams might have been my guilty mind playing tricks, but this dream could be nothing else but a message from the dead girl herself. In this dream, I walk through an empty village, the wind rippling at my back as I travel down the main carriage trail. There’s not another person to be seen, no voice or sound of life, no chopping of wood or clanging of the blacksmith’s anvil. Soon, I’m in the woods, white with snow, following the half-frozen Allagash. I stop at a narrows in the river and see Sophia standing on the opposite shore. She is the Sophia who committed suicide, blue, her hair frozen in clumps, heavy wet clothing weighing on her. She is the forgotten lover, moldering in the grave, at whose expense I have made my happiness. Her dead eyes settle on me and then she points to the water. No words are spoken but I know what she is telling me: jump into the river and end your life and the life of your child.
I dared not speak to anyone in my family about my condition, not even my sisters, with whom I was normally close. My mother commented once or twice that I seemed moody and preoccupied, though she jested that I must be suffering greatly from the monthly curse, to judge by my behavior. If only I could have spoken to her about my situation, but alas, my loyalties were to Jonathan; I could not reveal our relationship to my parents without consulting him first.
I waited to meet with Jonathan at Sunday services, while again nature intervened. Several weeks elapsed before the trails into town were passable again. By then, I felt the press of time upon me: if I were forced to wait much longer, I would not be able to keep my secret to myself. I prayed during every waking moment for God to give me the opportunity to speak to Jonathan, soon.
The Lord must have heard my prayers, for at last the winter sun came out in its fullness for several days running, melting a goodly portion of the last snowfall. Finally, that Sunday we were able to hitch up the horse, bundle ourselves in cloaks, scarves, gloves, and blankets, and pack ourselves together, tightly, in the back of the wagon for our trip into town.
In the congregation hall, I felt conspicuous. God knew of my condition, of course, but I fancied everyone else in town did, too. I feared that my abdomen had begun to swell and all eyes were upon the unsightly bulge under my skirt-though surely it was too soon for that, and in any case it was doubtful that anyone could find anything amiss, given the layers of winter clothing. I pressed near my father and cowered behind a post throughout the service, wishing to be invisible, waiting for the opportunity to speak to Jonathan afterward.
As soon as Pastor Gilbert dismissed us for the day, I hurried down the stairs, not waiting for my father. I stood on the last step, searching for Jonathan. He emerged, soon enough, and made his way through the crowd toward me. Without a word, I took his hand firmly and drew him behind the staircase where we’d have more privacy.
The bold move made him nervous, and he glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had taken notice that we’d stolen away. “Good God, Lanny, if you are thinking I should kiss you here-”
“Listen to me. I am with child,” I blurted out.
